


Begin At Your Own End

by CavalryofWoah



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, But like mentions of it and locking people in small spaces, Canon Disabled Character, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Nothing super duper graphic I think?, Past Child Abuse, not a huge theme though, people slowly become family, same age bc sense8 AU, they're all 17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalryofWoah/pseuds/CavalryofWoah
Summary: “Um. Who are you?” Even as he asks the question, Tim feels like he should already know the answer.The stranger-but-not turns his head around so fast Tim’s concerned about whiplash, and blinks big green eyes wide with surprise, his eyebrows almost disturbingly far up his forehead. “What the fuck?”Tim scrunches his face. “I feel like that’s my line, ‘cause I have no idea where I am. Also, an answer would be nice.”“Jason. What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”Or: Batkids Sense8 AU
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 63
Kudos: 102





	1. Well, this is how it begins

**Author's Note:**

> New year's resolution: Work on this fic I started writing in 2016. I have a big detailed plot and each main character (all tagged characters) has their own subplot going on. If I get this the way I want it's going to be really long to fit all my plans in.  
> Looking for a beta/sounding board if anyone is interested.  
> Chapter titles and overall title from Sum of Our Parts by Mary Lambert.

_ Gotham City, USA (East Coast) _

_ A very purple bedroom. _

_ 10:04 AM _

Steph sighs and flops back on her bed, roughly rubbing her eyes. She winces as she remembers the faint acne blooming on her forehead. Stress always causes breakouts for her, and stress is certainly a problem right now. 

She keeps glancing at the clock, counting down the hours, no, the minutes, until her dad walks through the door. It’ll be the first time he enters her home in four years. Steph didn’t really visit her dad while he was in prison. For one thing, getting there was an expense she and her mom could rarely afford. For another, she didn’t really want to. 

Even before he got himself locked up, Arthur Brown wasn’t exactly a good parent. Understatement of the year, maybe. Money was tight because he spent his time bouncing from dead-end job to unemployment to illegal activity, and problems were solved with alcohol and violence. Steph could only imagine what he would say about what she did while he was in prison. 

Her mom sobered up without him around, finally taking care of Stephanie, and if her addiction isn’t gone for good… well, it’s gone for now, and that’s more than Steph expected. She’s been doing better at her nursing job without her husband around, and it turns out there’s more food on the table when the money isn’t being drained by alcohol and drugs and another mouth, even when Steph needed her vitamins. 

Another peek at the time, worrying about the possibility that her mother will relapse with Arthur back in her life. Supposed rehabilitation aside, he’s a risk Steph isn’t willing to take. The fact that her mother would even consider taking him back, let alone follow through… she can’t understand the choice at all. 

Steph has no school to distract her, no money to go out and kill time, and it’s too fucking hot in the pavement and steel oven called Gotham City. For all it could snow like nobody’s business in the winter, it was equally good at turning into a sauna in the summer, and Steph is not up for that, no way no how. Her run will have to wait for tonight, for the sun to set and at least let things start cooling off a little bit. 

But, damn, is she jittery. She wants to go  _ now _ . She wants to exercise off the strange vision from last night while she was out running. Passing by dark alleys, she’d suddenly gotten the sensation of being in one, with two people in front of her. A tall, pale, muscular man that somehow felt familiar. A sense of danger lingered in the air, but despite his harsh breathing the man seemed calm. It was like he somehow had control of the situation, despite being held at gunpoint by someone she couldn’t quite make out. A flash and a bang--and the vision disappeared, leaving Stephanie with no idea how things ended. 

She’d been so spooked she cut her run short and headed straight back home. 

Steph blindly grabs at her bedside table for something to fan herself with, and comes back with a floppy old paperback book. _Good enough,_ she thinks. Any air movement is an improvement right now. 

Her father has supposedly improved. Prison, it seems, has been good for him--almost as good as his absence has been for his family. His letters claimed that counseling had been helping, that he understood that what he had done, to them and everyone else, was wrong. He promised to be better, swore that he had changed, but Steph has never really bought it. Maybe this time her father won’t drink, won’t bring violence and crime back to them. 

“And maybe pigs will fly,” Steph whispers to herself. She checks the time and swallows down the nausea rising in her throat. She tries to tell herself it’s just the heat, but she can’t believe the lie. 

Three hours until he makes his way back to them, assuming she calculated the public transit right. All she can do is wait.

Suddenly, she feels a cool, cutting breeze on her skin. Goosebumps rise on her arms. “Dad? Did you get home early? We can’t afford to put the thermostat that low!” she calls out. 

She sits up and sees a view of a city laid out beneath her and a nice look at the ocean. The air ruffles her hair and in the distance there’s a bridge. Before she can look around, and see the person she swears is  _ right _ next to her, Steph blinks and all she sees is her bedroom wall. 

That beautiful moment of cool relief just makes the oppressive heat worse. Still, she shivers from the strangeness of the vision. Where was that? Why is this happening? A hallucination last night, and now another today… what the hell is going on? At least this one was less violent, almost… peaceful. 

She doesn’t like it, but something about the vision called to her. Like the unfamiliar place was somewhere Steph should know like the back of her hand. Like the person she sensed beside her is someone she’s meant to be close to. She just doesn't have the mental energy to keep thinking about it. Her father occupies her thoughts. Steph sighs and fans herself with the book. She takes one more peek at the clock (two hours and forty five minutes till arrival) and then closes her eyes. More waiting.

***

_ San Francisco, USA (West Coast) _

_ 7:20 AM _

_ The rooftop of a building no sane person would willingly be on. _

The fog looks good from up high. That’s probably what a normal person would think with this view. And it does. It’s rolling through the city streets, up from the ocean, wet and cold and beautiful as long as you don’t have to drive in it. Since Tim isn’t one of those people, he should be thinking about how pretty it is, but he isn’t.

Tim is thinking about how to get down. 

He didn’t really consider ‘down’ while he was planning this. He was a bit busy finding his way up. It’s the highest building for three blocks, and this side of the roof has a great view of the Bay Bridge, but that’s not why Tim wanted to climb it. He’s on a mission to climb a building on each of the original seven hills, and this is his third. 

It’s only a six story building, and he’d chosen it for the rough brick walls, so getting down really shouldn’t be that hard. Free hand down, the way he came up. 

The problem is the tourists. 

It was dark when Tim made his way up, wide awake at four AM after the weirdest dream and looking for something to do. All he wanted was to forget the weird people and the firing gun from his midnight imagination that had seemed so real. It had felt disturbingly familiar, and was far more detailed than his usual dreams. So he climbed, trying futilely to get it off his mind.

As he started the ascent cars were too busy dealing with the switchbacks on the hills to focus on him, and aside from a few pedestrians there hadn’t been many people around. He’d had to wait for sunrise to take the best pictures. Unfortunately, now there’s traffic, and sunlight, and people would notice a teenager climbing down the side of a building. And if he dawdled near the edge someone might call 911 on him again. Technically what he’s doing isn’t explicitly illegal--but the police still take offence, and talking his way out of this definitely isn’t a good way to spend his day. They might even call his parents, if they could even reach them. Some concerned citizens called 911 because they thought he was suicidal and going to jump. Tim appreciated the thought, but not the outcome.

Free running could take him down much faster, but it was way riskier. If he isn’t fast enough, if he can’t reach far enough, if he misses…

His phone rings. Perfect. 

“Hi, Conner. What’s up?”

“Are you climbing again?” Conner’s voice is tinny through the connection, but the suspicion in it is clear. Resignation, too.

“What? No, of course not,” Tim says casually, almost absently. He’s busy trying to judge the distance from this building to the next, not just across but down. He could make a two story drop if he rolled, but first he’d need enough force to get over there. 

“Right. So you’re awake at seven in the morning on a non-school day just for kicks. Totally.” 

“Exactly!” Tim decides to ignore the sarcasm. 

“Great, then you know nothing about the dude clinging to the roof of a building on Russian Hill right now?” Conner continues, and Tim finally notices the edge to his tone. 

“...and if I did? What do you know about it?” 

“Oh, just that he’s being recorded and broadcast by people on the street, and the cops are on the way, so he’d better hurry.”

“Shit. Okay, thanks Con, no idea what’s going on but I hope everything gets worked out. Gotta go, sorry!” Tim hangs up before he can hear Conner’s disappointment, and slides his phone back into his fanny pack.

“Okay,” Tim breathes, “time to take a, ha, leap of faith. I can do this. Totally. Shit.” 

And then he’s off, climbing a little higher to reach the top of the sloped roof. He turns to sit on the edge, checks the zippers on his fanny pack and pockets, and starts running down. He leaps just as he gets to the edge, narrowly avoiding catching his feet in the gutter. 

Tim dives out and down, ending in a blind roll that barely connects with the thankfully flat roof of the next building over. The roll takes him to his feet, and he can hear police sirens in the distance as he keeps moving. If he gets away before they start asking him specifically to stop, he’s not technically evading the police and can’t be charged with that. Momentum is Tim’s friend right now, as long as his head can keep up with his feet.

It takes Tim an hour to get back to the condo by muni after his narrow escape, and when he flips on the TV in the living room there’s news coverage of his daring jump from the first building to the second. Phone camera video, clearly taken from the ground. It looks more impressive from that angle. 

Tim resolves to download the footage on his laptop later and see if there’s any good screencaps from it. He needs a new icon for the website anyway.

He leaves the TV on in the background as he searches for food, and texts Con to let him know that he’s watching the story on the news and it looks pretty cool. Of course Conner knows it was him, but plausible deniability makes everyone happier.

He grabs his laptop and flops down on the couch with the last of the pop tarts to update his blog. 

Other than occasionally on the internet, Tim just wants to be left alone. It’s what he’s used to, and what he’s best at.

Which of course means he’s suddenly sitting next to someone on a far different couch. While Tim’s is cushy and looks brand-new, this couch is tattered and stained. But despite appearances, it has the type of broken-in comfort that Tim’s fancy furniture can’t match up to. The person next to him has tan skin and black hair, but he hasn’t turned to look at him. His clothes are along the quality lines of the couch, though Tim’s guessing about the comfort. The stranger seems unaware of his presence, so Tim breaches the quiet. 

“Um. Who are you?” Even as he asks the question, Tim feels like he should already know the answer. 

The stranger-but-not turns his head around so fast Tim’s concerned about whiplash, and blinks big green eyes wide with surprise and eyebrows almost disturbingly far up his forehead. “What the fuck?” 

Tim scrunches his face. “I feel like that’s my line, ‘cause I have no idea where I am. Also, an answer would be nice.”

“Jason. What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

“Tim. Apartment where? How did I get here?”

“Gotham, dumbass, and how should I know? One second I’m alone, the next some strange guy is on my couch quizzing me.” Jason manages to perfectly convey his incredulousness with a complicated eyebrow movement that Tim could never hope to replicate. 

“Gotham. Gotham, how the hell am I in Gotham when I was just in San Francisco? This day was weird enough already!” Tim is, maybe, sort of, a tiny bit panicking.  _ This is  _ not _ a useful reaction, Timothy, pull yourself together,  _ his mother’s voice rings in his mind. He breathes in, straightens up, and on the exhale his shoulders are back, his head is a little more clear, and his face is blank. He can’t make his hands stop shaking, so he clutches them together in his lap and hopes Jason doesn’t notice. 

“San Fran? Okay, I’m definitely hallucinating, but this is weird even for me. First the weird-ass dream, now this, just. What,” Jason grits out, hands spreading out in front of him. “This is  _ totally _ what I need today, really.”

“Nobody in SF calls it San Fran. Wait, weird dream? Was it about a man in an alley being shot?”

“Yeah. But I guess my hallucination would know about my dreams.”

“I am  _ not _ a hallucination. I’m Tim, I live in San Francisco, and I had a really strange dream last night that felt eerily real. Just like this.” 

Jason frowns and stands up to pace. For the first time, Tim looks around the rest of the room and sees a small, dingy apartment with smoke-stained walls and fraying grey carpet. Out a tiny window, the sky is grubby grey, but Tim’s been sweating the whole time. From what he’s seen online, this definitely seems like Gotham. 

“Okay, say you’re real. How the fuck are you here? Why did we have the same dream? Why is any of this happening at all?” Jason says.

“Now who’s asking a billion questions?” 

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in my face later. After we figure this out.”

Tim sighs. “Sure, fine. Okay. Any idea what triggered this?”

“Nope. Maybe something to do with that dream?” Jason says. 

“Maybe,” Tim says. His mouth twists. “Let’s make sure we really did have the same dream. I saw a man in an alley, what about you?”

“Yeah, same. Some dude had a gun to his head. Dark hair, pale as hell.”

“Blue eyes? Did you see the gun fire?”

“Yup, but nothing after that. Any clue what happened after that?” Jason asks.

“No, nothing. That’s when the dream ended. But I get the feeling… I’m supposed to know that guy. I feel the same about you. And I think he made it out of that somehow,” Tim says.

“I know what you mean,” Jason says. “I think I’d know if he was dead. Don’t know how, or why, but... I do. You know?”

“Yeah. I just wish I knew who he is.” Tim stands up and paces back and forth across the small room. “We need to know more. He’s connected to whatever is happening somehow. I don’t even know if you’re real. Tell me your full name, and I’ll look you up when I get back to SF. You can do the same.”

Jason scoffs. “I don’t think you’ll get much results if you look me up, but what the hell. Jason Todd.”

Tim smiles. “I can find anyone. Timothy Drake. It won’t be that hard to find me.” 

“Okay,  _ Timothy _ . When I get the chance. Now scram, I got things to take care of,” Jason says.

“How?”

“I dunno, figure it out.” 

Tim scrunches his nose. He blinks, and a second later he’s gone.


	2. I Wonder Is This Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason reveals a few thoughts about his current situation, and Babs makes her first appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continues straight off from Jason meeting Tim last chapter.

_Gotham City, USA (East Coast)_

_10:30 AM_

_An apartment that has seen better days._

Jason’s life just keeps getting more and more complicated. His mom is gone, he’s struggling to keep a roof over his head, and on top of that now he has weird dreams and a strange-ass visitor from fuckin’ California of all places. Pale dude--okay, fine, _Tim_ \--doesn’t even have the decency to be a Gothamite. And his accent may be the common TV show accent, but it’s still weird. He has no clue what to think about this shit, other than that he’s probably finally going crazy.

His power was shut off last week, which means no phone charging or internet. His bus pass still works, since the student discount lasts during the summer. It’s his only saving grace, taking him to work and the library. The library’s the only place he can charge his phone and use the internet. Plus, there’s like a billion books and Jason has slowly been working his way through the classic literature section. 

He pushes off the couch again and walks behind it. On the stained wall is a giant cork board, covered in maps, notes, pictures, and pins. He’s glad Tim didn’t see it. He doesn’t want him sticking his nose in it. Tim might feel trustworthy, but he’s a stranger. Besides, Jason can do this on his own.

He sighs, looking the cork board over again. He brushes his fingers across the image in the center, a faded picture of his mother curling at the edges. With no leads, Jason’s on the verge of putting her case on a separate cork board. He just can’t find a connection between hers and the others’ disappearances. They had the barest similarities, but Catherine Todd was only involved in prostitution when she ran out of drug money and was desperate. The others were all full-time street prostitutes, or suspected of being escorts. Being an escort is usually more lucrative than the amount of money made by those in Crime Alley, though. As soon as people can get out, they usually do. 

As far as Jason can tell, he’s the only one still looking for these people. The cops don’t care, didn’t even when Jason brought them all the information he could gather on them. The missing persons signs didn’t turn up anything, and it’s hard to keep his phone on in case people call about them. Canvassing the neighborhood revealed little, other than that there were a lot more disappearances than he’d originally realized. He’s run into a wall. He’s got no clue what to do next, but he can’t give up. 

Before he can get further into it, his clunky watch beeps at him. “Shit,” Jason mutters. He’s gotta book it if he wants to make it to his bus stop in time. The stupid buses have a tendency to run late or early on their own damn daily preference. Missing a transfer can set him back over half an hour, and he can’t afford to be late. 

He grabs his backpack off the floor, already stuffed full of his uniform, wallet, and dead phone. Hopefully he’ll get off early enough to hit the library before it closes. He wants to look up Tim--and why does he automatically think of him as Tim, instead of Drake? Jason normally prefers to keep his distance until he’s figured people out. There’s just something about him… 

Jason runs out the door, barely remembering to lock it on his way out. Not that he has anything worth stealing. Not unless you count a jumbo-size tub of chunky peanut butter, a lumpy mattress, and a useless mini fridge (he has no power, after all). That and the pistol and bullets hidden under a loose floorboard. He guesses some people around here would consider those valuable enough. His steps thunder down the creaky stairs of the walk-up, raising dust in the dark air. Jason barely coughs, lungs used to the harsh environment. The bus stop is ten minutes away speed walking. He sprints and makes it just in time. As the wheelchair bus section flops down to connect to the ramp, out of the corner of his eye he sees a red-headed girl rolling up it, frustration twisting her mouth at the difficulty of getting on the bus with the sub-standard equipment. No way does Gotham spend enough on making public transit accessible. When he turns to look at her full-on, she’s gone. 

_Great,_ Jason thinks. _Another hallucination._ Maybe he hasn’t been drinking enough water? He doesn’t feel overly weak, just the normal gnawing hunger, though. He rolls his eyes and gets on the bus. Something on the bus stinks like hell, and he has to switch seats when he sees something sticky on the first one. Off to another day of tedious, frustrating work. 

***

_Bludhaven City, USA (East Coast)_

_10:35 AM_

_The kitchen of a house the inhabitants can no longer afford._

Cabinets. That’s Barbara’s main problem of the day. _Whose bright idea was it to put cabinets under things anyway?_ she thinks bitterly. _Blah, blah, storage space._

From the bathroom sink to the kitchen counters, she’d been running into--ha--lots of problems she had never considered before recently. She had told her dad, just last night, that she would be fine if he went into work. She had had to tell him about a million times, he was so reluctant to leave. Babs can’t call him now and tell him _no, sorry, you need to come home_ because she can’t even make herself breakfast. It’s his first day back at the station since she got out of the hospital. He needs the distraction. More than that, they need the paycheck. He makes good money and has for years, but hospital bills, no matter the insurance, just aren’t cheap. 

The toaster is at the back of the counter and the bread is low down in the pantry, but her wheelchair’s too wide to fit in. Her beloved, lazy dad left the cereal down on the table, and the milk is in the door shelf of the fridge right at her chest height, but the bowls are kept on a shelf higher than she can reach. 

Maybe she can reach the bowls if she turns her chair sideways and leans just a _little_ more… 

“Okay, yeah, no,” Babs mutters, hands in a white knuckled grip on the armrests of the wheelchair as it teeters from side to side. At least it hadn’t fallen over. “So no bowls. Cool.”

She sighs, resisting the urge to scrub at her face. She’d had a really weird dream last night of some pale, dark-haired man in a half-lit alley. A faceless figure had had a gun pointed at his head, but his eyes--a startlingly bright blue--had seemed to stare right into hers as sweat ran down his face. Just as he’d opened his mouth to speak, the gun had gone off and she’d woken up, choking on nothing. Try as she might, she hadn’t gotten back to sleep. 

“Dreams, shreams. Cereal first, other problems later.” No bowl… but she can reach the zip lock bags. 

Cereal and milk successfully bagged up, she wheels her way out of the kitchen, aiming carefully to avoid scraping her hands on the door frame. It takes a few tries. She’s still not used to her wheelchair, and the door is barely wide enough. For a moment her vision flickers, and she’s on a bus ramp in sweltering heat. She feels like she needs to get on the bus, but she struggles for a minute before giving up. The weird vision fades, and she’s back in the hallway. 

Babs shakes it off and heads towards the living room, stopping in front of the TV. The news is still on as she starts to carefully eat her bag of breakfast. The weather report--85 degrees, “foggy” AKA smoggy, 80 percent humidity--changes into the crime report. The most notable incident, still receiving coverage even after almost two months thanks to the ongoing court proceedings, is her case. The Joker case. Babs switches the channel immediately. It lands on some fake reality TV show she’d usually never watch, but anything is better than that. Eventually she turns the TV off and just eats her cereal in silence. Or, it would be silence… except somehow she swears she can hear music. Almost like circus music, yet she’d never been to the circus in her life. 

For a moment she can smell popcorn and hear cheering as bright spotlights swing through a dark tent. For a second… she can see someone in the center of the tent and as he leaps between trapezes it looks like he’s flying. Muscular body shown off by a yellow, green, and red outfit, dark hair, and a skin tone she can’t see in the odd lighting. She can’t quite see his face, but she can already tell he’s beautiful. She can’t look away. As he twists in the air somehow she feels like he sees her, and they make direct eye contact. His eyes are a stunning shade of dark blue. 

And then it fades out, and she’s alone in the quiet again, holding a ziplock of cereal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Who might that mysterious gentleman at the end be... hint hint his POV comes next. We're gonna get a glimpse into his life. Think it's tragic or comic?


	3. I Wonder Are You Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick, Damian, and Cass make their grand entrances! More individual plotlines are revealed. The circle is completed and every character has been linked with two people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my new beta,Yesitstyles!  
> Here's the spotify playlist for this fic! Bonus points if you can guess which character each song is for, it's a miss-mash. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7JU6JyU1II5NwR6DLWvLkR

_ Columbia, USA (Southeast Coast) _

_ 11:16 AM _

_ A dark and busy big top _

Dick is flying, and he’s exactly where he belongs. He can travel the states, even the whole world, but it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s up high, he’s home. It’s just an early show, not as busy as the major one this evening, but he goes all-out like there’s a fully packed crowd waiting to ooh and aah over his performance. He loves making people happy, making them take their minds off their problems and focus on him. He prefers to focus on the good things in life, not the bad.

Bad like his growing frustration with his parents.

Bad like the worry he can see on their faces when they talk to Mr. Haly. 

Bad like the way Kori will hardly look at him anymore. 

But none of that matters in the air. Dick is high above his problems, the adrenaline rush and dizzying height better than any high drugs could give him. He normally doesn’t notice anything but the routine as he’s performing, but some instinct drives him to look at the top row of the stands. He’s mid-flight, but he feels like he’s frozen in the gaze of a girl almost hidden in the shadows. The colors are dimmed, but a flash of moving lights draws his attention to shining red hair. 

Then the moment is over as Dick has to complete his quadruple flip, barely making the grab onto the next trapeze. He catches a concerned glance from his cousin before they lock arms and swing into a pairs routine, releasing and catching each other in complicated patterns. He doesn’t have a second to look for the girl again, and he has no clue why he even wants to. By the time it’s done, and Dick’s feet are back on the ground, she’s long gone. Like she was never there at all.

Dick’s performance may be over, but the show goes on. The net beneath the trapeze becomes part of the netting separating the crowd and the stage. Haly’s circus has learned from past mistakes, and risks are minimized to the best of their ability. Gar leads a lion in like it’s a household pet (one of the few types of animals absent from the circus life, actually), while people in bright outfits set up hoops, bars, and chairs to assist in the act. Normally Dick sticks around to watch, but he’s totally wiped and wants to towel off the sweat before he has to come back for the grand finale. 

He sneaks off the stage and into the back of the tent behind some canvas flaps. They do nothing to keep out the sound of the faint music, the lion roaring on command, and the cheering crowd. His heart is beating in his ears, and he snags a bag of popcorn someone left on a folding chair. Backstage is chaos as acts are prepped and broken down as fast as possible. Kori comes his way carrying a stack of knives and swords for the sword swallowing routine, and Dick ducks off to the side behind a stack of boxes until she passes by. Cowardly? Yes. Better for everyone involved? Also yes. He’s holding out hope that things will get less awkward with time, but time hasn’t healed all wounds yet. Unfortunately, Dick has never been the best at waiting things out. He wants to be on the move, always progressing. The tension in the air every time he and Kori lock eyes is stifling him. 

As she passes, her fiery red hair only reminds him of the girl in the stands, the one who pulled off a disappearing act worthy of the circus. Dick sighs and leaves his hiding place, absently eating the popcorn. He turns a corner and pushes his way through a crowd of stage hands, and freezes as his vision changes.

The popcorn drops from his slack hand as Dick looks around in confusion. He’s in some dim room, most of the light coming from a wall of glowing computer screens. In the single computer chair (which looks horrifically uncomfortable) sits a dark-haired teenager. When the guy turns to the side to look at a different screen, Dick sees brown skin several shades darker than his own, thick eyebrows and a strong jaw, and forest green eyes. Even sitting down he seems tall and muscular. Something about him rings a bell in Dick’s heart. Some instinct says  _ trust him, help him, stay with him, _ the same feeling he got from the split-second connection with the girl. 

“Hello?” Dick tries uncomfortably. 

The guy spins and stands in a quick, fluid movement, a wicked-looking dagger suddenly in his hand. “How did you get in here? Who sent you?”

Dick lifts his empty hands up, eyes wide. “Nobody! I don’t know how I got here or why I am, but you seem… familiar. What’s going on?”

“This can’t be, not me…” mystery dude mutters to himself, staring intently at Dick. “Who are you?” he demands.

“Dick Grayson, acrobat extraordinaire, at your service. You?” For a moment Dick is tempted to give an over-dramatic bow, but he doesn’t really want to push his luck with someone holding a knife. He gets the feeling he’s actually willing to use it.

The guy pauses and looks suspicious. “Damian al Ghul,” he finally grunts out. “How did you get in here?”

Dick shrugs, lowering his hands. “One second I was in the circus tent, the next I’m here. Speaking of, where the heck _ is _ ‘here’?”

“Nowhere you need to know, if you truly don’t already. You shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Okay, but apparently it  _ is _ possible, so let’s work with that assumption. Any idea what’s happening? Why can I suddenly teleport?”

“If I’m right, which let us hope I am not, you didn’t teleport. You’re just visiting. Your body remains wherever you were before, only your soul travels,” Damian says. 

“Oooookay. Okay.” Dick takes a second to breathe deeply and nods his head slowly. “How on Earth do you know that? What do you mean I’m not in my body?”   
“I’m part of an organization that focuses on this occurrence. You’re both in your body and not. But this can’t be happening to me. This must be a minor mental break from stress.”

“A little more info would be nice, since you seem to have all the answers.”

“I don’t need to explain obvious facts to a hallucination. Leave. I have work to do,” Damian says.

“Ignoring the fact that I’m not a hallucination, and I’m not entirely sure you aren’t one, I have no idea how to leave,” Dick says, spreading his hands helplessly.

“Just… focus on wherever you were before. Remember how it felt, how it smelled, what it looked like. Then just want to be there.”

“It’s… not really working?”

“Keep trying,” Damian says unsympathetically. He sits back down in his desk chair, but never takes his eyes off Dick. 

Dick can’t tell if the stare is from interest or because he thinks Dick could be a threat. The idea of anyone considering him a threat is foreign and makes him uncomfortable, so he hopes it’s not that. He takes another deep breath and thinks about muffled cheers and the smell of popcorn. 

And just like that, he’s back at the circus like nothing happened at all. The only evidence is the popcorn scattered at his feet, butter soaking into the mats. 

***

_ Athens, Greece (Southeastern Europe) _

_ 7:14 PM _

_ A very secret compound _

Damian cracks his knuckles and tips his head back. The desk chair is truly brutal, an unpadded wooden monstrosity with too-low armrests. It digs into his neck until he’s forced to drop it forward against his chest instead. He picked it out specifically because it’s uncomfortable. In this chair, there’s almost no chance he’ll fall asleep on the job. It’s been a real risk lately, as he works around the clock trying to complete Mother’s latest assignment. 

It’s a stupid, impossible task. He’s been given almost no information and only minimal resources. He has no idea who or what he’s looking for, or where to start. His only clue is that the last known location is in Europe, and with the size of the continent that’s not as helpful as it sounds. And now he has to worry about this. Dick Grayson.

The best case is that it was a stress and exhaustion-induced hallucination. The worst case is that he’s becoming precisely what he helps hunt--a sensate. If that is the case, there’s no need to point his idiotic visitor in a detailed direction that might lead him to the League. Above all, Damian cannot compromise the organization his grandfather and mother have worked so hard for. It is their lives’ work, as it is his. This throws not just a wrench but a whole truck into his plans. If he has become a sensate, he is ruined. Compromised. His only hope is that Grayson is the only connection he has. The more there are, the worse the situation is. But clusters rarely come in less than four… 

He dreads the feeling that he got when he first saw Grayson. As suspicious as Damian has been raised to be, part of him rebelled at the very thought of hurting Grayson. Raising a weapon against him was strangely difficult and went against his instincts. His own arm fought him when he pointed the dagger. The betrayal of his body lends more credence to the possibility that Damian has become a sensate. 

For a person as private as Damian, one raised to work against sensates in every way, to become so connected to another person--possibly more than one--is anathema to him. It’s completely outside his control. They’ll have access to his thoughts, his skills, his feelings… everything he is will melt into them, and he’ll be helpless to stop them from stealing anything they want from him. 

The one thing he’s sure of is that he can’t tell his mother. Or, worst of all, his grandfather. He must find and delete the recordings of this conversation before anyone sees. No one can find out.

But before he can get up, he turns his head and sees sunlight reflecting on water. A dark-haired girl, around his age, sits on a bench, face turned up to catch the light. She’s grubby, tattered and ripped clothes layered carefully, bandages wrapped around her hands like she’s ready to hit someone. Her lightly tanned skin is rough, ears reddened by the sun, and her nearly black hair lays greasy and flat. She turns to examine him with thin dark eyes, piercing him with her gaze alone. Even just sitting down, seemingly relaxed, she radiates danger, and… comfort? 

_ Damn,  _ Damian thinks.  _ She must be another one in my cluster. _ He has no idea where they are or who she is, but he knows it must be her. Others pass them, unaware of Damian’s presence, she alone able to spot him. He’s loathe to go through the horrible introduction phase again, having  _ just _ suffered through it with Grayson, but it seems he has no choice.

“Who are you?” Damian demands. No need to be polite with someone stuck with him, not that he’s great at “manners” to begin with. 

She only stares at him, though. She blinks and relaxes, despite the tension in Damian’s body. Somehow he knows she can’t answer him. He’s sure there is an answer, but she’s unable to communicate it to him. He grunts in frustration. He’s definitely not in the mood to deal with this. He has his own problems to take care of.

“Ugh. I don’t have to put up with this.” With that, he’s gone. 

***

_ Bratislava, Slovakia (Central Europe) _

_ 6:20 PM _

_ Outside a shopping center by the water _

Cassandra doesn’t speak Slovak. That’s not really an extra impediment to settling in the city, because Cassandra doesn’t speak anything. She understands some words more than others, in languages she couldn’t even begin to name, but mostly she understands  _ people _ . 

In just a few weeks of traveling, Cass has learned that people are pretty much blind to body language, but if she makes it really,  _ really _ obvious eventually they catch on. She doesn’t have much. Or anything, really. She unwillingly relies on strangers. 

Some are generous, and some want to be but can’t afford to be, and some ignore everything that doesn’t affect them directly. There are people who give her money and food, and people who give her rides, and people who walk by her without looking too closely because she is somehow offensive to their eyes. 

This person is one of the first category, but they’re trying to branch out into the second. Cass, who is right where she wants to be, carefully shakes her head. The woman tilts her head, then nods. She leaves a small handful of money in the cup on the ground in front of Cass and leaves.

Cass is grateful, she always is, but she has no idea how to express it. Not in any language, but especially not in one this woman might understand. She’s been here a few days, and only heard brief smatterings of words she knows, mostly from those she can identify as visitors. She has no concept of the word ‘tourist.’

But she has a cup with a fair amount of what she’s observed to be the money in this part of the world, and she’s been sleeping in an old building (positively new by the standards of some she’s seen in her travels) that only has roaches and not rats. Just as she’s contemplating taking the money to a store for more food, she senses a new presence beside her.

On the bench is a boy around her age. His whole body is tense, wound tight like he’s about to burst under the pressure. His shoulders are broad, and she can tell at first glance that he’s strong. Maybe even as strong as her; it’s been hard to keep up her exercise routine while on the run. He’s dangerous, too. She counts four weapons she can see, and there may be more she can’t. No guns, though. He prefers close-quarters combat. 

He seems frustrated, and perhaps unnerved by her examination. But there’s nothing else she can do. Cass waits for him to speak and hopes she’ll understand any of it.

“Who are you?” As if it’s a miracle, she understands all of it. Not his words, perhaps, but his intentions. What he’s trying to communicate. Unfortunately, Cass has no way to respond. The more complicated concepts she’s found no way to tell with her body. Names are one of those things. And he wants more than a name. He wants to know everything about her. He wants to stare into her soul. 

He’s judging her, but she feels comfortable despite his hostile expression. Despite the two feet of distance between them, Cass has never felt closer to anyone. Part of him feels similarly, but the other half resists it. The struggle and her inability to reply get the best of him, and he leaves as quickly as he came. She feels… lonely. She didn’t, before. It’s a feeling more unfamiliar than the boy. 

She’s not lonely for too long. After exchanging some of her money for a package of crackers and a box of granola bars, Cass heads back to the abandoned building where she’s spent the past few nights. She slips in through the back door, careful to avoid the broken glass from the old window. She’s glad to see her small bag of stuff, including the tub of peanut butter and her water bottle, remains untouched. Just as she’s kneeling down on a well-used blanket, the world shifts. She’s on the rough wood floor of a dim house, watching a blonde girl pace. 

It’s horrifically warm, especially compared to the mild weather in Bratislava. Cass’ many layers begin to work against her. The girl, whose fluffy, frizzy hair is bouncing with her rough movements, alternates between crossing her arms and clenching her hands into fists at her sides. When she spots Cass, she freezes. She slowly turns on her heel, looking caught between a fight or flight response. Clear blue eyes and a slack mouth reveal confusion, an emotion echoed by her whole body. 

“What the hell is going on with me today? Who are you?” the girl asks.

Cass is, of course, no more able to answer her than she was the boy. But unlike him, the blonde girl doesn’t immediately become frustrated. She blows out a big breath and then purses her lips. Then she crouches down near Cass, putting them at a similar height.

“Hi. I’m Stephanie. Call me Steph, everyone I like does. Do you know how you got here? Are you okay?”

She offers information, not just demands it. Her body shows concern, and she’s open. Shoulders making an effort to be relaxed, hands open at her sides, head tilted the tiniest bit. She’s not hiding what she feels. Before, she was anxious, but now her sole focus is Cass. Being caught in her gaze feels heady, wonderful. 

If only Cass knew how to speak back to her. 

When she still doesn’t reply, Steph tries again. “Okay, that’s fine. I’m cool if you don’t want to talk, or if you can’t. I’m pretty confused as to how you got here, but something tells me you’re confused too. Can you just nod your head once if you understand me? And lift to your hand with your thumb up, like this,” Steph demonstrates, “if you’re okay. If you’re not, thumb pointed down.”

Cass hadn’t considered how she feels. As it turns out, she _ is _ confused. It’s been a confusing day. But she’s also comfortable with Steph, like she’s known her for her whole life. Not that she’s been comfortable with anyone she’s known her whole life… 

Glad to be given instructions, Cass dutifully nods, and then lifts her fist, thumb pointed up. Steph smiles, revealing a dimple in one cheek. Cass has no clue what a dimple is, but she knows she likes it. The whole smile is nice, actually. She wants to make it happen again, but it fades as Steph peeks at the clock on the wall. 

“Listen, I’m glad you’re alright, and it’s nice to meet you, whoever you are, but you really need to go now. My dad is gonna come home soon, and it’s not a good idea for him to see you. It would be bad for both of us,” Steph explains. She seems truly regretful to be asking Cass to leave. 

Cass experiments by lifting her hand again, thumb pointed up. Steph smiles again, so Cass assumes she did something right. Remembering how the boy blinked out, Cass closes her eyes. She doesn’t know exactly how he did it, but she just… wants to be in Bratislava again, and suddenly she is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is where it really heats up! Now that everyone has been introduced, we can get into the details and a look at their daily lives and problems. Since the original circle has been completed, connections will now come in different orders. See if you can spot the reasons they're connecting to each other!  
> Okay, they've all been introduced; whose story are you most interested in?


	4. Are You Raising Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph sees her dad again and remembers some old memories. Damian has an awkward conversation with his mom and regrets his entire life and that it has led to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied another introduction awaits. It should be obvious but the italics section is a dream. Again many thanks to my beta for all the help! It really helped improve this chapter and I really appreciate it.  
> Also editing to add a warning (sorry I originally forgot) for flashback scenes of alcohol abuse and what I consider non-graphic child abuse (go to end notes for exact things that happen if you need to know in advance, and skip the italics scene if you need to, it's not crucial to the plot).

_ Gotham City, USA _

_ 1:15 pm _

_ A cluttered living room in a small apartment _

Steph sits on the edge of the couch, socked feet gliding anxiously across the splintering wood floor. The clock on the end table mocks her with glowing green letters. Her dad should’ve arrived already. Her mom isn’t supposed to be home for an hour or two yet, which means Steph will face her dad, for the first time in years, completely alone. 

At least she  _ is _ alone again. The girl from before had left as quickly and as inexplicably as she had appeared. If she had stayed, who knows what could’ve happened, but it certainly wouldn’t have been good. Steph’s father doesn’t have the best track record with her having people over when he gets back. 

She glances at the hall closet and wishes she had changed the doorknob. 

As she’s practicing the breathing exercises she learned in class, she hears footsteps coming up the stairs. Their apartment is right next to the staircase; it could be anyone coming up to the second floor. But some feeling deep in her gut tells her it’s her father. She peeks just her head out into the entry hall, staring at the door with narrowed eyes.

Instead of a knock at the door, the knob rattles, and her mom pushes it open. For a second Steph breathes a sigh of relief, but then her father follows her mom inside.

Her mom is smiling as they walk in, kicking her shoes off in the entryway and hanging her purse on a hook. Her mom’s got one eye behind her, most of her attention on Steph’s father. Is it because she’s uncomfortable having her back to him? “Steph! We’re home--oh, there you are!” 

Her mom must have seen her head peering around the door frame. Steph steps fully into the hallway, feeling caught. It’s not like she was doing anything wrong, it is her apartment, but she feels small again. Spying on her parents was a pretty frequent pastime when she was a kid. She swears she used to be better at it than this.

“Mom. I didn’t know you’d be back this early,” Steph says. Her eyes meet her father’s, and her whole body goes cold despite the summer heat. Goosebumps rise on her skin, and she crosses her arms, wishing she was wearing long sleeves to hide them. She can’t afford to show weakness. 

“Your mom came to pick me up instead’a makin’ me take the bus,” her dad says, smirking at her. She’s never seen him properly smile. “Least she could do, after not visitin’ in months.”

Her mom laughs nervously, ducking her head. “You know it was about the cost, Arthur. Getting out there’s expensive. I’m just glad we don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

"Right. Um, how was the trip?" Steph asks. She has no clue what to say, how to act. Is she the only one who can feel how freaking awkward it is? This is not how she pictured their grand reunion. 

"It was fine," her mom says. There's an odd expression on her face, and she's twisting her hands around. Maybe she's feeling awkward too. Steph’s glad not to be the only one.

"Good to be in a car again for the first time in forever. Would'a been better if I were drivin', but that'll come soon enough." Her dad moves to pass Steph by, and she steps quickly out of his way. He flops down on the couch in the living room with a sigh, stretching his arms along the back and tipping his head up. He seems immune to the tension in the air. 

"Don't you need a new driver's license? I thought yours expired," Steph asks. ‘Expired’ is a polite way to say ‘was taken away by the court when you were convicted.’ For now, she wants to keep things polite.

"It did. I'll get to the DMV in a few days. I can prob'ly get a car off an old friend." 

"With what money? We don't have the kind of savings for another car, even a junker." Aaaaand polite goes out the window. He’s just stepping back in, dictating their lives and finances again, like they haven’t been managing everything on their own for years. Like he’s just automatically in charge here.

"Stephanie," her mom cuts in sharply, "that's enough. We'll find the money, and he can get a job soon."

"Yeah, I think I got one lined up already. A friend of mine is lookin' for an extra hand," her dad says lazily. "We got any beer?"

"I thought you were going to stay sober this time?" Steph asks, clenching her fists at her sides. 

"Mostly. But it's been years, kid. One beer won't kill me."

"Well, you'll just have to live without. We don't keep alcohol around." How  _ dare _ he? How dare he write all those letters about changing and immediately go and do this?

"Pick some up for me next time you go out, then," he says. "You still remember which kind I like?"

Steph swallows, mouth dry. "No. I'm not even old enough to buy alcohol. And I already said, we don't keep it around."

"Don't tell me the rules in my own house,” he bites out, infamous temper starting to show. “Don't you have a fake ID? Most around here do. I did."

"I'm not really trying to follow in your footsteps," she snaps. Instantly she regrets it. She still remembers the consequences of talking back to him. 

For a second it seems like he'll lose his temper completely. He sits up straight, shoulders tight and face like stone. He stops himself at the very last second, closing his mouth and taking a moment to calm down. "Kid, you're pushin' it. Get outta my sight." 

"Seriously?!" Steph bursts out.

Her mom steps between them, arms half raised. "Let's just calm down. Stephanie, go on, listen to your father." Steph can’t believe she’s really taking his side. Absolutely can’t believe it.

"Wow." Steph turns on her heel and stalks down the hall to her room. "So much for changing. This is gonna be just like before." 

She narrowly resists the urge to slam her door like a petulant child. She closes it softly and collapses onto her bed, blowing hair out of her eyes. She didn't really expect him to change, so she doesn't know why tears begin to sting her eyes. She’s shaking in the aftermath of the confrontation, but she honestly can’t tell with what emotion.

Steph bites her lip and wills the tears away, choosing to think about her strange visions. That mysterious visitor… she looked like she was so run down, but she was still so striking. Her eyes were incredibly expressive. Not even just in a physical sense. There was some instinctive connection, something emotional. She wants to know more. Where did she come from? Why didn’t she talk?

She just wants to know everything, so badly. 

Steph wishes she hadn’t had to send the girl away. Maybe they could’ve figured out how to communicate more. Maybe she knows how to read and write, and they could’ve talked that way. Maybe she knows what’s going on. But just like before, her dad got in the way. He was late, the girl could’ve stayed longer. If only Steph had known that at the time. 

Thoroughly drained from the argument, Steph decides an afternoon nap is in order. She tiptoes back to her bedroom door and turns the lock. Already she’s becoming more of a ghost in her own house, keeping silent to avoid attracting attention. 

Steph plugs her phone in beside the bed. She wishes in vain for a ceiling fan, and turns the tiny desktop one up to full blast. 

It takes a while, on edge from her father’s presence in the apartment and sweating from the heat, but curled up in a ball on her rumpled bed, she eventually manages to drift off. 

_ Steph is in the closet again. Her day had been going so well before that, too. Good grade on her math test, a smile from that cute college boy who always caught the same bus home as her, and her dad wasn’t sitting around drinking when she got back. _

_ Of course, she hadn’t known that he had been  _ out _ drinking, sitting in some dingy bar with a bunch of old friends, discussing their latest “jobs” and grumping about the state of the economy. And when he got back, her mom was passed out on the couch with a bottle of pills and Steph hadn’t done his laundry yet, and dinner wasn’t waiting on the table. _

_ He tried to wake up her mom, but after taking some of those pills she got from a  _ friend _ last week, Crystal Brown wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Steph had tried to talk him down, tried to pull his attention onto her by getting between them and babbling loudly about dinner.  _

_ “Maybe sandwiches tonight, Dad, it’ll just take a second!”  _

_ Predictably, this had not ended well for her. A slap upside the head that managed to hit the bruise from two days ago, and the next thing Steph knew she was on the ground. His hand crushed her wrist, and she was suddenly being dragged to the closet. She half stumbled after him, unwilling to risk dislocating her arm again. Her father shut her in, and he flipped the stupid fucking lock, and he  _ left _ her there.  _

_ So the good day ends badly, and Steph is in the closet.  _

_ Crying, in the closet.  _

_ Her head is pounding, and her wrist aches (her dominant hand, too, which always sucked), and she didn’t get to eat dinner, either. Steph sits there in the dark, listening to her father stumble around the kitchen, knocking things over and cursing as he went. He gives up on a full sandwich and, if she’s interpreting the sounds right, just ear plain, slightly stale bread.  _

_ Her stomach growls, but then Steph’s brain helpfully reminds her of the stench of cheap beer on his breath and she gags. Puking is unpleasant enough, but doing so while locked in a small, dark place is God-awful, so Steph swallows the bitter taste at the back of her throat and tries to calm down.  _

_ As every breathing exercise fails, her heart pounds harder, echoing in her ears until between that and the gasping, uneven sound of her sobs she can’t hear her father anymore. That only makes Steph more anxious, and that fear, that anxiety… they make her angry.  _

_ Angry at herself, for losing control so completely, so humiliatingly, at a punishment she’s experienced a thousand times before. Angry at her father, for forcing her into this position in the first place. Angry at her mother, even, for being drugged up and checked out, for ignoring her daughter and her reality and the monster she married. Angry at the world, for the awful twist of genetics that had put her here and now, feeling this way.  _

_ And there’s no end in sight. _

_ 2:23 AM _

Steph wakes up slowly, feeling trapped and overheated. Sweat has soaked her hair and made it stick to her neck, and she pulls it up, disgusted. She had struggled out of her pants in her sleep, but it hasn’t helped her stay cool. She notes the darkness, checks the clock, and thumps the bed in frustration. So much for a quick afternoon nap. Goodbye, normal sleep schedule. 

At least it isn’t the school year; she doesn’t have to wake up early. Doesn’t have to be at work tomorrow (today?) until two. She can’t believe she slept for such a long time.

Simultaneously tired and filled with restless energy, she drags herself out of bed and stumbles to her laundry basket in the dark. Who has the fucks to give about putting away laundry, anyway? She manages to find a pair of running shorts, a sports bra, and a relatively lightweight tank top. She and her mom aren’t as poor as they used to be, but she’s not swimming in money to buy lots of workout gear. She washes her bras every other night in the sink, to make do with the ones she has. 

She slips on her shoes, still tied from last time, and then has to pull them off and go dig up socks. Thankful her phone is charged, she uses the light to get her headphones, pepper spray, and keys from the desk and creeps down the hall. She locks the door behind her and avoids the creaky steps on the stairs to the main door. Once she’s locked it, she zips her keys into an inner pocket of her shorts, plugs her headphones in, and starts off to her right. 

Maybe jogging at night in Gotham isn’t the safest plan, but Steph’s never been accused of being either a genius or a master of self-preservation. She begins at a slow pace and gradually gains speed, avoiding the streets with broken street lamps, and running on the asphalt just off the sidewalk to save her joints. The horrifically hot weather from the daytime hours has left its remnants, as the ground still radiates the leftover heat. But it’s no longer sweltering, and she knows better than to take shortcuts through alleys, and the soles of her shoes are thick enough to avoid risk from used needles and broken glass. It’s the best time to run in the summer. Less people to dodge, too, though the streets aren’t quite deserted. Gotham never truly rests. There’s always someone lurking in the dark. 

After about six miles, she hits the farthest length of her loop and starts making her way back. Steph briefly sprints to get away from a confrontation happening on the other side of the road, keeping her eyes to herself. Who knows if there’s an innocent party to play hero to, or how much trouble she’d get in trying to interfere? Best to leave the entire situation alone. 

She dodges trash left in the gutters, jumps over potholes, pushing deliberately from her calves to see how fast she can go, how far she can leap. She’s always testing herself. 

When she reaches her apartment again she breathes a sigh of relief at another night run safely completed, and heads inside, soaked with sweat. Uncaring of the risk of waking her parents, Steph takes a long cold shower and revels in the way it makes her shiver. 

Padding barefoot down the dark hallway, she’s about to go into her room when she sees faint light leaking around the partially closed door to the kitchen. She briefly hesitates, then creeps closer, hearing faint sounds.

By the time she’s right outside the door, her father’s voice is clear.

“What’s the job?” he asks. She can’t quite place his tone of voice, but he’s close enough that she can catch every word.

“How many have you taken so far?” his voice again. In the absence of another voice, she assumes he’s on the phone. She hopes so. If he brought strangers into their apartment in the middle of the night, his first night home, she’d be furious.

He whistles under his breath. “Wow. That’s a fair amount. Any trouble so far?” 

Steph narrows her eyes. Taken? Trouble? That doesn’t sound good to her, not with his “job” history. 

“Good luck or bribes? …Both? Always good to cover all the bases, I guess,” he says. Now she  _ knows _ it’s something bad. Bribes are usually paid to the police, in his line of work. Less than a day out of prison and he’s already talking about breaking the law. She almost can’t believe her ears. God, this is  _ just _ like him.

After a long pause, he speaks again. “When do I start? …Tomorrow? Sounds good.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, Steph walks back to her room, careful to avoid making any noise. Her door is locked securely behind her, and she finds herself contemplating getting a deadbolt for it. Maybe it’s overkill, but she wants some way to be sure he can’t invade. She already put the only key to her room on her purple moose keychain, so he can’t get in while she’s out of the house. He knows how to pick locks, though. It’s a minor deterrent at best.

Wide awake, she plays mindless games on her phone in the dark, almost wishing for some kind of homework to occupy her time and take her mind off her dad’s conversation. It’s a desire she’ll completely forget once the school year begins again. 

Between one heartbeat and the next she goes from flopped on her bed to lying on cold stone. Sitting up, Steph blinks repeatedly at the sudden harsh brightness of the new room. Two figures occupy her attention, both tall and strong-looking: one a beautiful, dark-skinned woman of indeterminate age, and the other a boy with a slightly fairer complexion, about Steph’s age.

***

_ Athens, Greece _

_ 10:31 AM _

_ A stately office, decorated in green _

Damian knocks gently on the doorframe of his mother’s open office. At her wave he steps inside, standing up as straight as possible, his shoulders back and hands clasped behind him. His mother expects perfect posture. She expects a great many things from him.

“You called for me, Mother?” he says calmly. He shuts the door behind him, taking care to do so softly. She doesn’t like slamming doors.

“Yes. It has come to my attention that you deleted half an hour’s worth of security footage from the computer room you’ve been using.”

Damian winces internally. He’d hoped nobody would notice. Almost the last person he’d want to confront about the subject is Mother. Only his grandfather would be worse. “Yes, Mother.”

Out of the corner of his eye, a girl on the floor catches his attention. Pale all over, from skin to hair to eyes, she’s damp, wet hair dripping on her pajamas. He hadn’t noticed her when he first walked in, and surely his mother wouldn’t allow someone dressed so in her office. He can tell instantly that Mother can’t see her. She’s either a hallucination (unlikely), or another member of his…  _ cluster _ . His loathing for the concept cannot be overstated.

“I require an explanation, Damian,” his mother says coldly, eyebrow raised. Seated in her majestic, high-backed chair, hands folded precisely on the desk, she’s as intimidating as ever.

“I have often been told that explanations are merely unwanted excuses,” he replies. Damian does his best to ignore the girl, hoping against hope that she keeps silent and doesn’t distract him further.

“Now that was an attempt at avoiding the question,” Mother says, “and not a very good one. Explain.” 

He swallows at her tone, doing his best to avoid showing weakness. Mother’s presence strips him of his emotional walls, almost ruining his practiced poker face. “I was doing things of a delicate nature I did not wish recorded,” he admits.

“Such as?” Mother demands.

“Private things I do not want to discuss. Nothing to concern you, it just seemed prudent to avoid it being viewed by others.”

“Private things,” she says slowly. “Perhaps of a sexual nature?”

“Mother!” Damian bursts out, eyes wide. His face heats, and he’s sure he’s gone a horrible shade of red. “Of course not!”

In his peripheral vision he sees the girl’s face contort in humor. She’s ducking her head and covering her grin. Her entertainment at his expense makes the situation that much worse.

“Oh? So you did not take advantage of the virus-proof computers and high-definition screens to view pornography?” Mother, too, seems momentarily disturbed before she regains control over her expression. She crosses her arms. “These actions are most unprofessional, Damian.”

“I did not!” he insists. However—he lacks a better excuse. Refusing to stutter out another attempt at deflection, Damian realizes in horror that he can say nothing to dissuade her. The truth is unacceptable, impossible to speak. 

The girl, curse her, has progressed from snickers to outright laughter at his predicament. “Oh man, this is awesome. What the hell did you do? Masturbate in a public room? Seriously?”

“I  _ did not! _ ” For a brief second he forgets himself and looks at the girl directly, repeating himself for, as far as Mother can know, no apparent reason. He quickly looks away, before his mother notices him staring at a bare patch of floor, but to the girl the damage is done.

The girl seems startled he replied, likely having assumed herself invisible to both of them, since nobody had acknowledged her presence. “You can see me? Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

His mother raises an eyebrow. “Repetition will not make your point for you. If not this, what were you doing?”

“I-I… nothing of concern, Mother,” Damian replies after a pause. His brain has slowed down to an unhelpfully glacial pace. “I swear, it is not what you believe.”

“I see. I will not tell your grandfather, this once. This will  _ not _ happen again, Damian.” 

He internally sighs, relieved that she won’t mention it to Grandfather, and resigned to the fact that he really can’t convince her that he was not performing inappropriate sexual acts in one of the League’s observation offices. “Of course.”

His mother stands, moving to a bookcase beside a large, ornate window. She runs a hand along the spines, looking for something in particular. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Mother,” Damian says. He cuts his eyes from the girl to the door and subtly tilts his head, hoping she’ll get the hint. 

While she stands, he walks quickly out of the office and down the hallway. He’ll have to delete the computer history from the room he was using, lest his mother reconsider her terrible assumption and come up with a worse one. How it could be worse, unless she discovered the truth, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to consider it, either.

“What’s going on?” the girl asks, half jogging to keep up with his long legs. She’s not particularly short, but Damian is particularly tall, at six feet and two inches, and his stride is purposeful. When he moves from place to place, he prefers to do so quickly. Otherwise, he is simply wasting his time.

He ignores her. There are cameras everywhere, and other people could be around any corner. Despite his haste his steps are quiet, and oddly enough, so are hers. She doesn’t seem the type to do anything quietly, though he doesn’t know why he believes so. Looking down, he sees her bare feet, and feels a momentary pang of an emotion he can’t place. He knows he’d rather she were wearing shoes, perhaps because the floor must be cold and uncomfortable to walk on.

The girl is impatient, battering him with questions until she finally gets the hint that he won’t answer. Damian leads her to his room, locking it securely behind them. Then he checks it thoroughly for new cameras and listening devices, and is relieved to find nothing. One never knows what to expect with the League.

He turns to face her and meets blue eyes, flashing irritation, set in a stubborn face. Her arms are folded. “Who are you?” Damian asks.

“Oh, so now you talk,” she snaps. “Steph. You are?”

“Damian. What do you know of the situation?”

“Situation? Seeing strange people, having visions of other places, and now whatever the hell this is? That situation? Nothing. Where am I?”

He ignores her question in favor of his own. “How many of the others have you met?”

She seems poised to snipe at him before she registers the question. “Others?” she asks.

“The other people we are connected to. So far, I’ve met two.”

“Connected to? Okay, you really need to explain. And I’ve met one, and I think for a second I saw where someone else was, but not actually the person,” she says carefully. She squeezes her crossed arms tighter, fingernails digging into bare skin.

“We are connected to a group of other people, called a cluster. We can visit them, and they can visit us. That is what you are doing now.”

“Why are you the only one who can see me?” she says, taking a seat on his neatly made bed.

Damian huffs, mildly irritated about the wrinkles she’ll surely cause. He’s forgotten that there won’t be a single physical trace of her presence when she’s gone. 

“I’m the one you’re connected to. You’re visiting me, not them.”

“How is this possible?” Wonder laces her voice, warring with confusion. “How many of us are there?”

“In general, or in our cluster specifically? Clusters rarely come in groups of less than four. If the people we’ve seen are the same, that’s all four of us. If they don’t overlap, there are more of us. I don’t know yet. In general, it’s impossible to truly tell. Thousands, tens of thousands… it’s not common, but it’s becoming more so,” he explains. The idea that it needs explaining is a foreign one. Damian can’t even remember learning it himself, and feels like he’s known it his whole life. He also has no clue why she’s so easy to talk to, why he feels the need to indulge her curiosity. 

“How do you know all this?” 

“I’m part of an organization that studies this phenomenon.” He feels like she should be more disturbed, but he’s not sure of the appropriate reaction to all of this. She’s unaware of the details, the implications of being able to visit someone at any time, invisible to everyone but them. She has no clue that she’ll be unable to keep secrets, or avoid sharing her skills. Privacy is a thing of the past, and she sits there without a clue. Maybe if she knew she’d react with the same horror he feels, but Damian doesn’t want to put the idea of spying on him in her head if it’s not already there.

“What’s it called? What are we?”

“We–” He hesitates to use the first person pronoun, unhappy to include himself. “We’re called sensates.” 

“Sensates,” Steph says, testing how the word feels in her mouth. She doesn’t notice that he didn’t tell her anything about the organization. “Weird as hell.”

Damian snorts. “Yes. Weird as hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child abuse warning: Steph dreams about when her dad used to abuse her, and mentions things like him previously dislocating her shoulder and hitting her. He also locks her in a small closet and hurts her a bit, which is not graphically described.  
> Sorry if it feels like just Damian endlessly explaining stuff but I really wanted Steph to get the entertainment of seeing his conversation with his mom and there's no way she wouldn't ask questions. Plus it sets up a bit more of the rules for this AU to help anyone unfamiliar with Sense8 (seriously go watch it tho). That's not gonna last though, Damian is not patient enough to explain the same stuff to everyone. Next chapter we're gonna get to some other stuff, more individual plots for everyone. They've all got some stuff going on and we'll see some actual action. The others have more action-y stuff happening.  
> What did you think of Talia's assumption about Damian? Wouldn't you just die if that happened to you?


	5. Still In The Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason runs into some trouble at work, and Babs gets some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know... nothing about gangs but what I have found on the internet... more research will be done later. Medical stuff I actually have some experience with, but this is fiction and I don't pretend to be an expert.  
> Many thanks to my beta for everything!

_Gotham, USA_

_4:36 PM_

_A very busy Italian restaurant_

It’s only been an hour and a half and Jason is ready to be done. He’s past done, he’s over-cooked, he’s fried. He’s been in the toaster and it’s hot enough the whole thing is smoking. His temper is heating up, too.

There’s only so much rudeness and stupidity a guy can take. He still has five more hours in his shift, and he’s counting down in minutes now. A hundred and fourteen more minutes ‘til his break. At least the break comes with free food. He mostly lives off dried and canned stuff, eaten lukewarm now that his power is off, when he’s not working. Sometimes Antonio, the owner, even lets him take leftovers for later. Garlic bread at three AM is a life-saver sometimes. 

But even that light at the end of the tunnel can’t help him now. Unfortunately, the restaurant is a favorite with a local gang. Modeling themselves after the real Italian mafia, they’re mostly third and fourth-generation Americans obsessed with Italian food, and Antonio’s is the most authentic you can get. 

Some are polite enough, but others are… rougher around the edges. Jason can’t throw tons of stones at impoliteness in his glass house, but he’s never an asshole to people in the service industry. Some of these guys come in, high off the power of a gun in their waistband, or off of the latest street drug. The gang members get it before they cut it with the more dangerous stuff, but it’s still not safe, and it makes them even worse douchebags. There’s been some experimental new drugs coming out, not heroin or other regular stuff, and Jason is keeping his nose out of it. He’s always hated drugs, probably because his mom loved them. And the way the gangs rope people, even kids, into it… it’s never sat right with him.

Some of them demand free food, better service, wanting everything now now _now._ They think they own everything they can see, like some kind of Lion King Simba situation. Antonio already pays more than his share of “protection” money (money that only protects Antonio from the gang itself), and still they ask for more. Jason is caught in the middle, stuck playing serving slave to a bunch of assholes, while Antonio and the rest of the employees do nothing.

There’s nothing they _can_ do. 

Of course, once upon a time, Jason could have handled it. 

That only makes it worse, knowing he could take all these fuckers, especially before, and instead he has to wait on them hand and foot. But he’s doing his best to put those days behind him. If only people would let him forget. 

“Toad! Hey, Toady! Get the fuck over here!” 

Jason abandons the table he’s been clearing off to go see what the loud gangbanger in the corner wants. The guy’s even waving his hands in the air. 

“Yeah?” Jason says, face like stone. 

He’s used to this; they come in every damn week. He puts up with the demeaning names they call him, and helps them promptly, and only curses them out in his head. But damn, is it hard to hold his tongue sometimes.

“Another bottle of wine!” the rowdy gang member demands. The rest of the men at his table cheer and raise their glasses. They’re loud enough they drive off almost all the other customers every time they show up. “The good stuff, this time.”

“Which one?” Jason asks, grabbing the tiny notebook out of the pocket of his apron for the sake of having something to do with his hands.

“Didn’t you hear me? The good one!” the guy snaps. 

Jason clenches his jaw. “Of course. It’ll be right out.”

“It’ll be right out, _sir_ ,” the guy corrects angrily. 

Jason grinds his teeth, hands crushing the notebook slightly before he gets his temper under control. “Of course, sir.”

Jason turns on his heel before they can ask him for more stuff. They come up with the most ridiculous requests sometimes just to make the servers stumble and be unable to do what they want. They enjoy picking on everyone they can, for the power rush. In Gotham you’re either controlled or in control, and everyone wants to be the latter. The only way to climb a ladder is to step on the person below you, and these guys are always looking to get higher. 

Jason smoothly weaves around tables and pulled out chairs to get into the back of the restaurant. The kitchen is in chaos, trying to keep up with the demands of the gang and the few customers brave enough to stick it out. Most of them either ditched or asked to change their meals to take-out. He can’t blame them.

Alcohol is near the back, and he narrowly avoids colliding with the head chef (though the restaurant is a little low-brow to be calling anyone a chef, good as the food is) on his way to get it. 

Chef Luca curses, waving a ladle at him. “Boy, you stay out of my way! What in the hell are you doing back here anyway?” 

“The boys out there want more wine. The “good stuff” they said,” Jason says. 

“Well give ‘em the mid quality, they won’t notice the difference. Aren’t they already drunk as hell?”

“Oh yeah, they’ve been drinking like fish. But you really want to be the person who cuts them off?”

Chef scrunches up his face. “No way. Drunk guys and guns are a bad combo, and I’m not stepping up to tell them no.”

“Exactly,” Jason replies. He crouches down and grabs two bottles of mid-level red wine, fairly expensive but not enough to bankrupt Antonio for giving it away. When they do bother to pay, it’s just giving Antonio back some of the money he pays them for ‘protection’. “I ain’t doing it either. The day I do, you’ll know I’m suicidal and should be put out of my misery.” 

“We need you too much for that, kid, don’t go getting stupid on us now. I hate breaking in newbies, it takes forever,” Chef says. “Now get out there before they start causing trouble, we’re busy in here.”

“Yes sir,” Jason says, saluting sarcastically with a bottle of wine in his hand. 

Jason makes his way back out to the front of the restaurant, remembering to uncork the wine bottles at the last second. When he’s back at the gang members’ table, he pours it not into wine glasses, but into large plastic cups. They don’t want wine to be fancy, they want vast amounts, fast. 

He’s about to leave when a tall white guy at the next table over suddenly grabs his wrist. Jason turns quickly, eyes narrowed, tugging his arm away. “What do you want?”

The guy he now dubs Grabby Hands leans back. “You that idiot that used to run with Falcone? You used to do all his dirty work.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jason says, wanting to step back from the situation but refusing to give up ground. His hands fist at his sides.

“I don’t think six months is long enough for us to forget your dumbass face at Falcone’s side,” another man at the table drawls. “Gettin’ out was a mistake, kid. That’s the only protection you get.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t need protection. And I’m _not_ a kid,” Jason snaps. He turns to leave again, but of course the men can’t let it go. 

The group at the table laughs and Jason stiffens up. “‘Don’t need protection’--what a joke. You’re lookin’ at what you need protection _from,_ an’ pokin’ the bear with a stick,” one says. He’s short, middle-aged, and edging from chubby to fat.

“You’re the one poking me,” Jason says. His nails dig into the palms of his hands as his fists clench even tighter and he turns back to face them.

“Where’s the guy who enforced the rules? Where’s the guy that had people pissin’ their pants just at the sight ‘a him?” Grabby Hands asks. “Now you’re just a harmless puppy-dog, easy to kick.”

Jason’s jaw twitches. Denial is getting him nowhere. “Try and kick me. I dare you.” At the sight of Jason’s eyes, dead serious and darkened with anger, the guy leans back in his chair involuntarily. Jason snorts. “Yeah. You’re all talk. All ready to insult people who could kick your ass, but you don’t want to back all your bullshit up with a fight.”

Grabby Hands sits back up straight and takes a moment to turn his brain back on. “Last I checked there’s ten ‘a us, an’ only one ’a you. An’ you don’t wanna meet me around town when I ain’t gotta be so polite. If we wasn’t in here you’d regret all your trash talk asshole. It’s easy enough to make people disappear.”

Jason’s self-preservation instincts have clearly fallen victim to his temper. “Ten against one, wow. Big man can’t even fight his own battles without nine goddamn people helping.”

The man, thoroughly drunk and tired of being insulted, stands up so quickly his chair falls over backwards with a loud clang of metal on tile. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” he warns.

Jason shrugs dismissively. “Sure. I don’t have to waste my time on stupid shit like this.” He turns away to walk back to the counter and get cloths to wipe down tables. 

Before he gets more than two steps away, the guy grabs his arm again, pulls him around, and throws a punch. Jason’d half been expecting this, and quickly raises a hand and knocks his arm aside before it can make contact. He tries to step back again, Grabby Hands just can’t take a hint. He clearly won’t stop until he gets a hit in, and Jason can’t take that lying down.

It’s a short fight from there. Jason gets rid of the gun first off (hidden in his waistband, like he’s asking to shoot his own dick off with one mistake). One kick to the gut has Grabby Hands gagging, and Jason sweeps his legs out and sends him straight to the floor. His head cracks off the tile and Jason steps back and watches the other gangbangers, waiting for another to try him for revenge. It seems the rest of them are hesitating, though, nobody willing to go after him since he dealt with the first guy so quickly.

Jason only looks away from the group when Chef Luca comes out and whistles sharply. Trained by months of obeying that whistle at work, Jason spins on his heel to face him.

It had by no means been a fair fight. Grabby Hands didn’t even get a hit in. The other guy’s drunk, and Jason has been fighting for years. He’s fought for his life against men both sober and tougher, and this was a cake walk in comparison. 

Jason’s come out of it with only the beginnings of handprint bruises on his wrist from that first grab. The rest of him is fine, so he’s calling it a success. 

The other guy isn’t so fortunate. Jason hit his stomach so hard he threw up on himself a little before he passed out, and knocking his head on the ground is never a good thing. 

Chef has the ability to shout at volumes that should only be possible from drill sergeants. He uses it, in Italian, to its fullest extent. “What in the hell were you doing? I expect a fair amount of stupidity and violence around here, it’s almost inevitable. But we _just talked_ about not getting into things with them! You’re supposed to rise above this shit!”

Jason scowls, replying in Italian as well, “I’m sorry, but he threw the first punch. What was I supposed to do, let him beat me to a pulp?” 

“Yes! We don’t pay you to pick fights in the goddamn restaurant and scare off our customers!”

“Like these guys count as customers,” Jason scoffs. “They never fucking pay.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t watch your mouth, _you_ won’t get paid!” Chef growls. “Get cleaned up and go in the back. Trade out with Lianna, you’re on kitchen duty for the rest of the night.” 

Now Chef turns to the small crowd of very angry gang members. It’s a miracle they’ve stayed silent long enough for Chef to yell, but he has that kind of effect on people. Two guys have picked Grabby Hands off the floor, but he’s not supporting his own weight. “I’m sorry about this, gentlemen. We don’t condone his actions at all. Please let me get another plate of garlic bread and some soda out here to help make up for it.”

One rather imposing man steps forward after gesturing at the guys holding the unfortunate loser of the fight. The signal causes them to lead him out of the building, staggering all the way. “Yeah we know it ain’t your fault, Chef. Just throw in another tomato pie, everythin’ on it. And Todd?”

Jason looks up from examining a splotch of Grabby Hands’ vomit on his shirt. “Huh?”

“Watch your back. This ain’t gonna be forgotten.”

The gang’s spokesman sits down and turns his head away, like Jason is beneath his notice. It makes his blood boil, but Jason can’t afford to cause any more trouble. 

Under Chef’s watchful eye, Jason heads to the office in the back, grabbing a fresh shirt and continuing on to the staff bathroom. He doesn’t even know how the guy managed to catch him in the line of fire when he threw up.

It’s good he didn’t go for further just by habit. _See,_ three AM self-doubt! He _is_ learning self-control!

Jason strips his apron and shirt, and when that turns out to be stained too, the undershirt as well. His pants are black and seem to have been spared. He washes his hands and face roughly with cold water, then scrubs off his scarred chest with wet paper towels. 

After he’s mostly clean and dry, he tugs on his only spare shirt (the black tee he was wearing when he showed up), and goes to the kitchen to try and work off his frustration. Chef is short with him for the rest of the night, snapping at him for every little thing, and it doesn’t exactly help him stay calm. He toughs it out, and spends his break eating pasta and smoking out back by the trash cans. 

He’s a little concerned a group will be waiting to jump him when he clocks out and leaves, but he guesses they’re trying to lull him into a false sense of security first, because nobody’s around. It’s too late to head to the library and look up Tim, but he’s off tomorrow and can do it then. It’s for the best he’s not working, anyway. Jason might need the money, but he also needs Chef to calm down—and hopefully not tell Antonio about what happened. 

Yeah. He’s not getting his hopes up on that front.

It’s only when Jason’s curled up on the couch that night, trying to fall asleep, that he thinks back to the comment about making people disappear. 

He hadn’t really considered that the recent disappearances could be related to the gangs. It hadn’t seemed like their style. But he’s not really in a position to rule things out, and if there’s even the slightest chance, he has to look into it.

***

_Gotham, USA_

_4:45 PM_

_A crowded hospital waiting room_

Contrary to popular opinion, Babs doesn’t actually hate hospitals. Of course, being in them really sucks, but she’s had pretty positive experiences with the medical professionals in them. The anesthesiologist from her surgeries had come after she woke up to check on her and apologize for not being able to put her completely under, and the nurses were nice. Her two weeks in the hospital had been difficult, but the people taking care of her had done their best to make her feel comfortable and lift her spirits. The private room after she was moved out of the ICU was pretty cushy, and her dad stayed with her a lot. 

He’s sitting next to her now, reading a two year old magazine from the stack on a nearby table, pretending like he’s actually interested in it instead of watching the clock religiously. They showed up a little early, and now they’re waiting to be let in a little late.

“Barbara?” a voice calls from a doorway. It’s a tall nurse in green scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks exhausted, but he smiles at her when she wheels herself over. 

Babs waves her dad back to his chair when he moves to follow. “I’ll be fine dad, I’ll send someone to get you when they’re done with the prelims.”

“I can tell you know how this works, huh,” the nurse says, leading her into the back. “How are you today?”

“I’m alright. You?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

At the direction of the nurse, Babs carefully rolls her chair up onto a giant scale. “How much does the chair weigh?”

“Thirty five pounds,” Babs says.

The nurse subtracts it from the number on the scale and marks it down. “This way please.”

“Blood pressure next, huh?” Babs says. She follows the nurse farther down the hall, carefully avoiding the very few obstacles in her way. The nurse helpfully pushes them off to the side as he passes. 

“Got it in one,” the nurse says. “I’m Elijah, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”

When they reach the room she’ll be in, Elijah moves the chair and Babs aims herself next to the equipment. She holds out her left arm for the blood pressure cuff, resting it limply on a small metal table next to her. She offers her right hand and Elijah clips a small monitor onto it to measure her oxygen and heart rate. The thermometer goes under her tongue. Last time she was here it was in her ear, so that’s an unwelcome change. It doesn’t taste bad, it just feels weird and annoying. 

When everything is tracked and recorded (“Your blood pressure is very good, by the way, but your heart rate is a little high.”), Elijah goes to get her dad and tells her the doctor will be in soon. 

Her dad manages to get there before the doctor. He takes the seat normally meant for patients, which Elijah had left against the back wall.

“Are you alright, Babs?” her dad asks.

“As good as I usually am,” she replies. “I wonder how long we’ll have to wait?”

As soon as she says it, their wait is over. The doctor knocks and then comes in. She’s short and skinny, with dark brown skin and a beautiful afro. “Hi, I’m doctor Flay, it’s really nice to meet you.” She shakes Babs’ hand, grip firm.

“I’m Babs, and that’s my dad,” Babs says.

“Jim Gordon,” her dad says, standing up to shake her hand as well. 

Doctor Flay looks at the clipboard Elijah left on the counter, adding some more paperwork she brought with her. “So, we’re here to follow up on how you’re doing and talk about some test results.”

“Is something wrong?” Jim asks, raising an eyebrow.

Flay hesitates briefly. “Some of the results were a little unusual. We’d like you to go for another test to check on things.” 

“Unusual how?” Babs asks quickly, swallowing with a suddenly dry throat. 

“The MRI showed parts of your brain… merging, in a way. It can be very dangerous if left unchecked, and might need surgery. There’s always the possibility that it was an anomaly or flaw with the test, and nothing is wrong at all. That’s why we want to do another MRI to make sure and get more detailed images,” Flay explains. She smiles tightly, trying to be reassuring. 

Babs is not reassured. Her mind is replaying _surgery, surgery, surgery_. She thought she was done with surgeries. They’re terrifying and painful and leave scars that might never completely go away. Maybe worrying about the scars is a little shallow of her, but she’s a teenage girl whose entire life has just changed permanently for the worse. She has more than enough scars--physical and mental--already, thanks.

“What does this mean for her? What’s the success rate of the surgery?” Jim demands. His eyes are a little wild. The last thing he wanted out of this appointment was more bad news.

“She might experience fainting spells, hallucinations, stuff like that. The surgery has a pretty good success rate, but I’m not an expert in that. We’d need to bring a specialist in.”

 _Hallucinations,_ Babs thinks. _Like the bus? Like the circus boy?_ _Oh no._

“Babs?” her dad says, “have you experienced anything like that?”

 _To lie or not to lie?_ “No, Dad. I guess I’ll be on the lookout now, though. I’ve felt fine, actually, other than the obvious. I thought my recovery was going well…” _Liar._

“Where you injury is concerned, it is going well,” Flay says soothingly. “We’re very impressed with your progress. We’ve heard good things from the occupational therapists.”   
“I didn’t realize the therapists were reporting back,” Jim says slowly. 

“Since they’re in-network we have access to their case notes as well, which makes it easy to coordinate information and keep track of any issues.”

“That makes sense. Babs? How’re you doing with this?” her dad asks. He looks like he’s aged a decade in the span of minutes.

“Gee, Dad, how do you _think_ I’m doing? Just when I’m getting used to all this crap, my brain has betrayed me and now I’m apparently going to go freaking crazy! But _no_ , everything is just fine. I’m fine,” she snaps. Immediately she regrets it. Babs sighs, dropping her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you, it’s not your fault.”

Her dad comes over and rests his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, Babs, I understand this is hard. You’re not crazy, you _may_ be ill. Nothing is confirmed yet. Don’t worry about this until after the tests, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says grimly. “We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

Her dad chuckles. “Yup.” He turns to Flay. “Thank you, Doctor.” 

“No thanks necessary,” she says. “I’ll put through the referral for another MRI, and you can schedule a follow-up appointment with me by phone for after you’ve scheduled the scan so we can talk about the results.” 

“Sounds good. Is that it for today?”

“Not quite. I’d just like to take a look at the wounds to see how they’re healing and do a few quick physical tests to see if anything has changed.”

Babs sighs deeply and wheels her way towards the hospital exam bed. Her dad helps her up onto it, and Flay spends the next several minutes poking, prodding, looking, and generally being annoying. The wound has pretty much healed into dark purple scars. The stitches dissolved about a month ago. And on the paralysis front, absolutely nothing has changed. If Babs isn’t looking, she can’t even tell when Flay touches her. 

When she and her dad finally get to leave, Babs is completely despondent. 

“Why don’t we stop for ice cream on the way home?” her dad suggests. 

She knows he’s trying to cheer her up, but all she really wants to do is go home and cry in peace. Still, Babs doesn’t want to make her dad feel bad by saying no. She gives in. “Sure, Dad. Sounds good.”

Unfortunately, the medical bills aren’t a hallucination. More tests and appointments mean more bills, and Babs isn’t sure what to do about it. There doesn’t seem like there’s anything she _can_ do about it, but she needs to figure something out. 

And if she can’t get her mind off the acrobat she saw the other day, well, she feels no need to mention it. She doesn’t want to worry him even more. It’s probably nothing, right? Right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Jason got to show off his skills a tiny bit. Babs' life sucks in new and interesting ways, but don't worry she'll get to be a more active character soon. Her brain irregularities are a nod to Nomi's in the show, I decided sensate brains do actually look different and that's how they're identified.  
> What do you think?


	6. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim proves he can't do everything, and his mom calls for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm back! Sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth. I have a small update to get back into things, my first chapter with only one POV, but better than nothing. I haven't given up, it's just been a very rough semester. But I'm back with a college degree, an A in Japanese, and acceptance to a world-class university for the fall. I have no school till October, so it's all in on fanworks for me.

_ San Francisco, USA _

_ 2:16 PM _

_ A rather lonely, expensive condo _

Tim is ready to pull his hair out. He’s found out everything he can about Jason Todd, and yet nothing useful. Hospital bills ( _ yikes, they’re expensive _ ), school attendance record and grades (terrible and amazing, respectively), well-used library card. He is in fact from Gotham, if the accent and heat weren’t enough to support what he’d said. His school and his library card have different addresses on record, and looking them up revealed that neither of them look anything like the apartment Tim saw. 

Tim wishes he had looked around the apartment more, paid better attention, something. The vision (man, he wishes he had something less  _ mystical hippy _ to call it) happened so fast, and Jason was by far the most memorable part. 

But the guy doesn’t even have facebook--hell, Tim can’t even tell if he has a  _ smartphone. _ How is Tim supposed to find out his dirty secrets, and entire personality, and blackmail him with his weirdest porn habits if he turns out to be an asshole? Then again, Jason seems like the kind of guy who’d be impossible to blackmail. And Tim… doesn’t quite have the necessary skills for that anyway. Working with computers isn’t his main hobby. This seems like motivation to improve, though.

The most confusing revelation of his research is that Jason has the exact same birthday as Tim. So it’s either a coincidence or a clue to this whole situation, which is apparently  _ not _ a hallucination, though that might have been easier to handle. Since when is Tim’s life weird enough he’d wish something was a hallucination? No, okay, he’s felt this way for ages, basically every time Bart and Con do something especially weird. This  _ definitely _ takes the cake, though. 

Tim gently puts his computer on the end table, then shifts to be upside-down on his couch, with his head hanging off the cushions and his legs flopped over the back. Maybe being upside-down will help him think of what to do next? Somehow he doesn’t think Google will have easy answers to this stuff, but it’s worth a try. 

He needs a break first, though. Between his early-morning adventure and his not-hallucination, Tim’s exhausted, physically and emotionally.

Which of course means his parents call, because that’s just his luck. 

Their ringtone on his phone is The Imperial March. His phone is plugged in next to the couch, and Tim scrambles upright to go get it. If he lets it ring more than three times, Mother will be disapproving. Nevermind that half the time when he calls either of them, they don’t pick up. For about a month last spring, he’d thought his dad had blocked his number. When they finally called him back, he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He’s not sure he really wants to know the answer. 

“Hello?” Tim says when he answers, willing his breathing back to normal after his rush to the phone. 

“Timothy,” his mother says. He can hear her disappointment in her voice. He picked up after ring number four. “We’ve talked about respect and punctuality, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then why do you still lack those qualities?” she asks coldly. 

Tim winces. “I apologize, Mother. I’ll work on it.” He doesn’t mention how far away from him the phone was, or his awkward position. Mother hates excuses, and believes couches should only be used the way they were intended: for sitting up straight, with absolutely no slouching. 

“I will expect improvement by the time we arrive.” 

“Arrive?” Tim asks, valiantly keeping his alarm out of his voice. She’d said it so casually, as if coming to San Francisco was normal, as if they had all occupied the same city at any point in the last five months. 

“Yes, Timothy,  _ arrive _ ,” she repeats, impatience clear. “Your father and I will be there the day after tomorrow. I expect the mansion to be set up and ready by the time we get there. Instructions have been sent to the staff, but I also expect you to be present. You will stay there with us for the duration of our trip to the city.”

“Yes, Mother.” His throat is dry. He can’t tell how he feels about this. “How long will your visit be? I need to make arrangements for my absence from the condo.” 

Not that Mother would care, but someone has to come feed his fish.

“A fortnight.” Two weeks. Why on Earth would they stay for two whole weeks? They haven’t done that in almost a year, and longer stays always involve something unpleasant for Tim. “We’ll be overseeing a museum installation of our most recent work, and attending a gala. You will also attend, and will behave in a manner befitting your station.” 

“Of course, Mother. There’s no need to worry, I know how to act.”

“I do not worry, Timothy. You know better than to disappoint me in public at this point, or at least you should.”

Was that an actual compliment? Is she saying she has faith in him? Or maybe it’s just that she won’t accept anything but perfection, and the idea of him falling short is anathema to her. He’s supposed to be just like her, after all. “Yes, Mother. What is your installation on?” 

“The progression of the evolution of modern humans, currently existing mutations, and the possibility of further changes to human nature. Humans might be a stepping stone to an even more mentally advanced version of our species. The possibilities are endless,” Janet says, her voice marginally less frigid. Her work seems to be the only thing she actively enjoys. 

“It sounds interesting.” He’s not even lying, it really does. Something about the words  _ mutation  _ and  _ mentally advanced _ echo in his head. For some reason he wants her to keep talking about it. Maybe to get his mind off his own problems, maybe just for a chance to hear the sound of her voice for a little longer, Tim doesn’t know. “What makes you think the next step of our evolution is mental advancement?”

“Since bipedalism became hominins’ primary method of transportation, while tracking evolution we have focused more and more on the size of the brain. It fascinates us. But for some, it’s not just the size of the brain--it’s also the shape. There’s evidence from some specimens that have the imprints of the brain visible on the skull, that some brains have no division between the hemispheres, and are in fact fused completely. It’s been seen in modern humans’ brains, too. It’s uncommon and thus rarely studied, but scientists are conflicted about whether it’s a problem or not. There are also records in different cultures of people who could talk mind to mind. So many cultures have some concept of telepathy, or astral projection. Where did this idea truly come from? It’s hard to separate fact from fiction, especially for extinct cultures, but we’ve made some promising connections.” 

“I thought a lot of those concepts came from people taking hallucinogens,” Tim says slowly. Lots of weird concepts can be summed up by people eating, drinking, or smoking the wrong thing. 

“Not everything. Not everywhere. And it’s not yet clear just what kinds of effects the brain structure differences have. Some medical texts view it as a strictly negative, but in some places people with that trait appear to have been worshipped,” Janet says, clearly in lecture mode, though she’s never wanted to teach. She doesn’t have the patience for it, and says she’s not in the business of trying to cure stupidity, but she enjoys talking to a captive audience. “It’s late, I need to go.”

“Goodnight, Mother.”

“Yes,” she says, and hangs up. 

So clearly she’s in a very different time zone than him, but that still leaves a lot of possibilities. He has no idea where his parents are right now. And apparently, he needs to bribe one of his friends to come feed his fish. Bart would snoop through his stuff and eat all his food, Conner would probably forget… time to call Cassie. After that break, of course.

Tim flops back onto the couch, mind buzzing over his situation and his mother’s words.  _ Astral projection. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on my main tumblr https://cavalryofwoah.tumblr.com/ and my art tumblr https://rosalia-art.tumblr.com/ come say hi, feel free to talk to me about this story there! Remember comments = motivation to update. I really really appreciate all the comments I've received so far.  
> Please excuse the butchery of anthropology at the end there. But gee, I wonder what Janet's theories could possibly mean for dear Timothy? And how do we contrast Janet's relationship with Tim, and Talia's relationship with Damian?


	7. Food for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick meets a new eavesdropping companion with some unique insights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving in less than two weeks so I've channeled my nerves into finishing this chapter. Hope you enjoy it!   
> As always, thanks a ton to my beta! This was massively improved by her input.

_ 5:20 PM _

_ Columbia, USA _

_ A fairground, in the midst of being packed up.  _

Dick drags a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it back off his forehead. His arms are screaming at him as he helps break booths down and take them to the trucks, and he wishes he could just sit down in the shade, or better yet, the air conditioned RV, but he’s used to this. It seems like every day his parents and Mr. Haly give him more tasks to do, and yet never more responsibility or trust. Just more grunt work. 

He dumps his next load beside the appropriate truck, glad to pass off the duty of playing 3D tetris to someone else, and heads towards the edge of the fairgrounds, where a few minor tents are still standing. There’s always something else that needs to be done. Most of the staff have shuffled off, plenty of trucks already pulling out to move on to the next city, but the Graysons usually stay until the last minute.

As he’s coming around the corner of a slightly secluded spot, with a few tents still up, Dick spots Mr. Haly. He’s about to call out to him, but hesitates—something makes him hold his tongue. He walks slowly around the other side of the tent closest to him, and sees what caused him to pause. Mr. Haly’s talking to a few guys, and his posture is tense, shoulders stiff.  _ Something is off about this,  _ Dick thinks.

He doesn’t realize he’s mumbled it aloud until he hears a voice of agreement. 

_ Holy toledo!  _ Heart trying to escape his chest, Dick whips around to stare at the stranger suddenly standing beside him. 

“What’d he do to end up arguing with gangsters?” the guy asks. His head is tilted to the side, eyes narrow as he watches Haly’s conversation. It’s like he has no concern for the heart attack he just gave Dick. 

“Gangsters?!” Dick says urgently, trying to slow his breathing down.

“Shhh,” mystery dude says, finger pressed to his lips like he’s talking to a child. “Don’t want them to hear you, squirt.” 

Dick splutters quietly. “I am  _ not _ short! I’m an acrobat, being huge would be a bad thing!” And this dude is tall, so he’s clearly not a good judge of height. “What on earth makes you think these guys are gangsters?” 

The guy shrugs, tilts his head to the other side. “They’ve both got guns, and those tattoos on their necks look like gang tattoos to me. Plus, there’s just something about them, I dunno how to explain it. When you’ve been around guys like that enough, you can just tell.” 

“Okay, say you’re right. What the heck would they want with Mr. Haly?” Dick says in a low voice, trying to appear casual as he peers around the tent at them. 

“How should I know? I just got here.”

Dick can’t see any signs of the guns mystery guy claims the men have, but he believes the guy. The two men addressing Haly both have shortish, dark hair, but one has paired it with a hideous porno mustache. Everything about mustache man screams ‘bad touch,’ and Dick immediately decides to stay far away from him. The other man is taller, and more menacing. The menace takes a step closer to Haly, and Dick clenches his fists.

Mystery guy notices. “Ease up, dude, there’s nothing you can do to these guys without getting your ass kicked. Stay back, watch, hope you don’t get caught. Your hands are sticking out past the tent, by the way.” 

Dick jerks his hands back out of sight, heart rate picking up. "Who are you? I've never seen you before."

"Yeah, same here. In fact, where  _ is _ here? Jason, by the way," says the guy—Jason, apparently. 

"Dick," he says, holding out a hand for a handshake that doesn't come. After a very awkward thirty seconds, he drops his hand back to his side. 

"That an insult, or..?"

"No! It's my name," Dick says sharply, wishing this would stop happening. Almost every freaking time. 

"Damn, dude," Jason says, false sympathy and real humor dripping from his tongue, "my condolences. Location?"

"Columbia? Why is this a question? How do you not know where you are — were you kidnapped?"

"Columbia!" Jason snaps, eyes wide. "When did I leave the damn country?!"

"If you started off in the US, you didn't," Dick offers, half his attention still on Haly's conversation. It seems as tense as before, Haly shifting nervously on his feet. His face is turning a blotchy mix of red and white. Dick is momentarily glad his skin is too dark to ever achieve that feat. 

"Okay, still. Not where I should be. I was  _ not _ kidnapped, I just don't know how I got here," Jason mutters. 

Dick shrugs. "Sounds like you were kidnapped to me."

"I'm un-kidnappable," Jason insists. "I'd like to see someone try."

"Careful what you wish f--urwk!" Dick chokes briefly as Jason drags him to the side and behind a different, even smaller tent, one hand over his mouth. Dick, with habits learned from years spent wrestling with an annoying older cousin, automatically licks the hand to get him to let go. 

Jason pulls back, wiping his hand on his jeans and glaring. "So that's what I get for saving your ass?"

"Wha-?" Jason twists Dick around by the shoulders, just in time to see the guys talking to Haly leave in a huff, right by where they were previously standing. "Oh. Thanks."

“Forget it. Now, you gonna follow those guys, or go talk to the dude in the circus get-up?”

“I’ll see what’s up with Haly,” Dick says reluctantly, torn on what to do. He looks around and then walks as casually as he can towards Haly, who’s still behind the tents.

Jason “hmms” in response, a tall shadow at Dick’s elbow. 

“How do we explain you?” Dick asks. 

Jason smirks, eyes distant. “I don’t think we need to. Just act like I’m not there.”

Dick remembers what Damian had said, about “visiting” without moving your body. Maybe Jason is just a visitor. Can anyone see Jason but him? Time to find out, apparently. 

He stops a few feet away from Haly, not wanting to crowd the man. Haly is running his hands through his hair, staring at the ground and mumbling quietly to himself. It’s the most scattered Dick has ever seen him, which is unsettling.

“Haly?” he asks. 

Haly’s head snaps up. His wide eyes never wander to Jason, who Dick is now ready to believe is mostly invisible. “Dick? What are you doing here?”

“Checking around to see what else needs to be packed up. Are you okay?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

Dick ignores how clearly rhetorical the question is. “I saw some strange guys come from here. Something about them seemed off to me.”  _ Well,  _ he thinks,  _ to me and Jason. _

Haly shakes his head dismissively, but there’s something like panic going on behind his eyes. His attempts to appear casual are dismal. “Don’t mind them, we just had some minor business to discuss. Nothing to concern you.”

“What kind of business?” Dick presses, stepping closer. “I’ve never seen them before. Are they locals?”

“They’re… not precisely local. They’re branching out into national business and thought we might be good partners, but as I told them, we’re not. Don’t worry about it, it’s settled.” 

But it doesn't  _ seem _ settled. Or at least, Haly doesn’t.  _ He’s afraid, _ Dick realizes. 

Haly’s been one of his constants growing up, an adult in charge of everything, blustering—but steady. Dependable. Finding out that one of the people he looks up to is afraid of something makes Dick feel a little small and scared, himself. 

“National business… partners with a— what, a circus? Could move a lotta shit with a circus. Anything weird just gets blamed on the whole  _ thing _ being weird,” Jason mutters, looking around at the mostly broken-down equipment, emptying fairground, and brightly-painted vehicles. 

_ Hey, _ Dick thinks,  _ I know it’s weird, but other people don’t get to call it that. _ “How’d you settle it? Those guys seemed a little angry when they left,” Dick says.

Haly shrugs, seeming even more nervous. “I just told them that I didn’t think our businesses would be a good fit, and perhaps they should seek out other partners. I’m just not interested.”

Jason whistles. “If that worked, just that easy, then I’ll eat my hat. Something bad is gonna happen.”

“ _ What _ ?” Dick demands, turning to Jason. He forgot himself for a few seconds, but that was all it took to have Haly giving him sideways glances. 

“Dick, are you alright?”

“Way to look crazy, Dick.” Jason says his name like a simple insult, but Dick doesn’t have it in him to protest that at the moment.

“Yeah,” he says, “sorry, Haly. I’m okay. I just thought I heard something. I guess the heat is getting to me.” Theatrically, Dick wiped sweat from his forehead and grimaced. 

Haly looked relieved at his excuse. “Yes, it is rather hot out here. Why don’t you go to your RV and rest up? I’ll join the rest of the break-down crew and we’ll get things sorted. You’ve done enough.”

“Nice save.” Jason clapped his hands mockingly. 

“Thanks, I think I will. Sure you don’t need my help with anything?” He determinedly ignored Jason.

“We can do without you. Your performance and practice are physically draining enough, let the rest of us do this. It isn’t even technically your job.”

Wow.  _ We can do without you.  _ Dick tried to shake it off. Technically, _ none of this _ was his job; it’s not like  _ he  _ was the one getting paid for these shows. That all went to his parents. “Sure, I’ll see you later.” 

Dick trudges off towards his family’s RV, shaking his sweat-soaked shirt to cool off, Jason right behind him. He can hear Jason’s footsteps, almost but not quite in sync with his own. But when he gets to the RV and goes to hold the door open, he looks back and Jason is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching to single POV chapters so I can get them out faster. For anyone betrayed that Dick isn't tall, I've been watching a LOT of previous artistic gymnastics competitions and these men doing a billion flips and twists are shorties. If Dick wants to pull off quadruple flips he can't be a giant, sadly. Whose POV are you interested in seeing next?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments inspire updates! Please let me know what you think. I'm working on transferring my spotify playlist for this fic to a different account, I will probably post a link with the next chapter.


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